CLOSE TO YOU: Enhanced (Lost Hearts) (32 page)

             
"You're going to nod politely and not tip your hand," Big Bob said sternly.

             
"Yeah." Teague picked up an earbud with microphone attached, stuck the battery pack in his pocket, and headed for the door. "But I'm not going to like it."

             
He headed off to intercept Kate and found her walking toward him down the corridor in the South Wing of the capitol.

             
For the first time since they'd started sleeping together, she did not look pleased to see Teague.

             
Well, too damned bad.

             
"So." He stopped in her path. He stood with arms crossed over his chest. "Do you want to go for a frappuccino?"

             
"No. It's a little chilly for a frappuccino. But I would like a latte. Thank you for asking." She had a snarky expression on her face, as if he'd issued a challenge.

             
He hadn't. He had simply asked her for a coffee. Teague didn't understand women. He never would. "All right. Come on."

             
They walked out of the capitol and toward Starbucks.

             
"I saw you interview a lot of people. So you had a good day?" Teague realized he sounded as if he was sniping at her.

             
"Not good. No. Since I'm on everyone's shit list for abandoning them yesterday, I've had the privilege today of chasing follow-up stories." Kate's clipped voice grated on his nerves.

             
"It is hardly my fault that I asked you to avoid trouble."

             
"I didn't say it was."

             
To any onlooker, it was clear that they were at odds. She kept her briefcase, stuffed with papers, close to her chest, her arms folded over it. He strode with his hands free—when he was outside, he always walked this way, so he would be ready for attack—yet everything about his gait felt foreign, as if he weren't comfortable in his own skin. They walked stiffly, with a designated distance between them.

             
"You can't blame me for being concerned when he looks at you as if you were his last chance at salvation," Teague burst out.

             
"His last chance at salvation?" She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt, and she sounded fretful like a child faced with something she couldn't comprehend. "That is exactly right. He is so . . . he's so normal when other people are around, but when we're alone, he seems to think I understand him. I offered my condolences on the death of his wife—"

             
"For God's sake, why did you do that?" Teague asked.

             
"Because that's what you do when you see someone after the death of their spouse." She spoke in that irritated, logical tone a woman used when she thought a man was being unreasonable. "I was
trying
to act
normally
"

             
"All right. Don't get fussed about nothing." Teague took a breath. "What did he say when you offered your condolences?"

             
"He said I was his Jackie Kennedy. What does that mean?"

             
"It means he's already picked out his second wife, and you're it." The Starbucks was still a block ahead. The outside of the capitol complex was quiet; a cold front had settled in, and the breeze nipped at Teague's nose.

             
Three guys in suits waited between them and the hot latte.

             
Three really big guys.

             
"And he plans to run for president."

             
"That's grim." Even from a distance, Teague could see these were not regular suit-wearing guys. They were muscle. They loitered on the curb as if they were waiting for someone.

             
Teague's menace meter hit the red zone.

             
Kate? Did they have instructions to kidnap Kate? That would indicate a level of weirdness he hadn't previously considered from Oberlin, but with his wife's death, his sanity seemed to be slipping.

             
Or was it Kate's appearance in his life that had sent him over the edge?

Kate came for coffee at
the same time every day, so it would be easy to schedule a pickup. . . . In a low voice, Teague instructed, "Go back to the capitol."

             
"Why?" She spun to face him on the sidewalk. "Because you don't want to discuss this situation with me? You know, I'm not only a reporter, I'm personally involved, and I need to know what you know about Oberlin."

             
"I know you're a reporter." The three muscle guys were still standing there, trying to look as if they were waiting for a cab. Teague's tension escalated. "You hang your job over my head all the time. I'm trying to protect you, but you insist on being out in public talking to crazies when it would be a lot easier to protect you if you'd just stay home." Damn! He had said too much.

             
"Stay . . . home?"

             
For the first time ever, Teague saw Kate almost incoherent.

             
Unfortunately, it didn't last.

             
"What home would that be? Mine? Yours? Should I wear pearls and dust while I'm cooking your dinner and waiting for you to arrive?" She dropped her briefcase, and it hit the ground with a good, solid thud. "C'mon, Teague, get a grip. We're not married. I've got a job, you've got a job—is yours more important than mine?"

             
"Yes." The guys abandoned their casual stance and headed toward Teague and Kate. "Right now it is." Turning away, he spoke softly into the microphone. "We have a situation out here, Congress Avenue, half a block from Starbucks." He turned back to her. "Now would you go back to the capitol, please?"

             
"Yes. Oh, yes. I most certainly will go back to the capitol." Her eyes shot blue sparks. "Where I will work. Where I will do interviews with senators and assorted other crazies." She poked her finger in his chest. "And you had better learn to deal with that." Picking up her briefcase, she strode away.

             
Thank God. He had thought she'd never leave.

             
Turning, Teague fixed his gaze on the guy in the lead and moved to intercept. With a nod but no smile, he asked, "How's it going?"

             
As they swerved to close in on him, he realized he had made a fatal mistake.

             
Kate wasn't their target.

             
He was.

             
Kate strode up Congress toward the main entrance to the capitol.

             
What a dreadful man. How could she ever have imagined herself in love with him? He complained about her job. He complained about the way she behaved. He invited her to Starbucks, then sent her back without an explanation. . . .

             
We have a situation out here, Congress Avenue, half a block from Starbucks.

             
She stopped. A situation? What did he mean by a situation? Why . . . ? Enlightenment burst into her mind. Those men . . . Teague . . . he was in trouble!

             
Wheeling around, she ran back up the street.

             
But she couldn't see Teague. He had disappeared. And she couldn't run. She could barely walk in these preposterous Jimmy Choo stilettos. Stopping, she took

them
off. She dropped one on the sidewalk, kept the other one in her hand. She remembered what Teague had said:
A heel is a great weapon
. She sprinted down the street.

             
Where was he? Where . . . ? Her head swiveled as she searched. Her nylons shredded on the concrete. She took her cell phone out of her jacket to call the police.

             
How far could they have taken him? Had they shoved him into a van, taken him away to be murdered? She'd never see him again except for . . . except for photos of his mutilated body. . . .

             
"Come on, come on, come on, come on," she muttered as she ran. Her heart hit her rib cage. She felt sick with anxiety. "Where are you?"

             
In an alley beside a Dumpster, some garbage cans, and a pile of trash, she saw a flash of movement. She raced toward it, saw a coil of bodies.

             
Four guys. It was them. Foolish to be relieved, but she was. She had found Teague.

             
She called 911. Gasped, "A mugging in the alley at Congress and Tenth." Stuck the cell back in her jacket.

             
She heard the smack of flesh against flesh. One man flew out, propelled by a well-aimed kick. He hit the trash pile in an explosion of junk.

             
Kate leaped over the top of him, screaming at the top of her lungs.

             
Two men crouched over some poor sucker on the ground. Teague. They were beating the crap out of Teague.

             
Lifting her shoe, she smacked one thug in the back of the neck. Blood spurted.

             
He swung around.

             
With both hands on her briefcase, she swung and hit him in the face.

             
He tumbled sideways.

             
The briefcase went flying. She screamed again, long and loud. Somebody would hear. Somebody would come to help.

             
The other guy, the one crouched over Teague, sprang at her—and in seconds, Teague changed from prone to a charging bull.

             
Teague tackled him. They went tumbling across the alley. And the first mugger, the guy in the trash, came at them. Ignored her, and came after Teague.

             
Grabbing a full, heavy garbage can, she slung it at him. She couldn't get the weight far off the ground, but when it hit him in the shins, the collision knocked his feet out from under him. He flew over the top. Landed flat on his face.

             
The impact twisted the handle from her fingers, taking skin, taking flesh, twisting her shoulder half out of its socket.

             
She swung around, seeking trouble, seeking Teague. . . .

             
And realized more people were running at her, yelling. For one moment, she tried desperately to think how she would defend Teague.

             
Then she realized these were Teague's people. Gemma, Rolf, Chun, all looking reassuringly competent—and furious. They went into action and within seconds the muggers were subdued.

             
Kate heard sirens. Saw flashing red and blue lights and police cars.

             
Teague staggered to his feet.

             
Teague was safe.

             
They were safe.

             
Her feet hurt. Her hands hurt. Her chest heaved with exertion and residual panic. The papers from her briefcase were scattered across the alley. Her shoe was . . . she didn't know where her shoe was.

             
Police in uniforms swarmed the yard.

             
Kate looked through the pack to Teague.

             
Teague stood, hands open and hanging at his sides, looking back at her. Blood oozed from his swollen lips. He had a bruise rapidly closing one eye, and she could hear him wheezing from across the yard.

             
She had never seen anything as beautiful in her life.

             
He started toward her.

             
She started toward him.

             
They met in the middle.

             
And Teague said, "Why didn't you run away? Why did you come back? You're no self-defense expert. Are you
crazy
, too?"

             
She stared, open-mouthed, and hated him as much as she loved him. "You're welcome, asshole."

             
Turning on her bare foot, she walked toward one of the police officers to give her report.

NINETEEN

              That evening, in the light and warmth of Teague's kitchen, Kate pulled an orange Popsicle from the freezer and handed it to him. "Here. This'll bring down the swelling."